


Raid

by Jennie_D



Series: Becoming New [11]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, Tormund and Jon get into a pretty serious fight this chapter, Wildling Culture & Customs, Wildling Jon Snow, Wildlings - Freeform, but they make up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-30 18:03:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20777120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennie_D/pseuds/Jennie_D
Summary: It wasn’t a true raid. At least that’s what Jon kept telling himself.They wouldn’t be sacking any villages or putting innocent people to the sword or taking bread from hungry mouths. They wouldn’t even be truly crossing the Wall.But Jon still felt guilty.





	Raid

It wasn’t a true raid. At least that’s what Jon kept telling himself.

They wouldn’t be sacking any villages or putting innocent people to the sword or taking bread from hungry mouths. They wouldn’t even be truly crossing the Wall.

But Jon still felt guilty.

The Free Folk no longer raided their southern neighbors. After fighting alongside them and facing near certain death together, most felt it would be wrong to continue attacks. The southern north and the true north had been through so much together. They should both take time to heal, rebuild.

This did, however, mean the Free Folk needed to find new places to get certain supplies.

They’d brought some things home with them, oats and grain and fresh steel, gifted by a grateful Winterfell. But these wouldn’t last forever. Already the Antler River clan was low on grain.

And though spring was coming quickly and the Free Folk would soon be able to grow their own food again, Jon had long known the issue of raiding was likely to arise soon.

Sure enough, during one of the Hardhome settler’s frequent visits, it did.

* * *

Johnna was one of Karsi’s daughters, a girl of seven and ten. Despite her youth, she was popular with her people, was stepping into a leader's shoes. Tormund seemed certain that once Hardhome got more settled, she’d quickly be elected their chieftain.

It was odd seeing her, a woman near grown, so strong and confident. For Jon remembered Karsi bundling her into a boat at Hardhome while the dead bore down around him like it happened only yesterday. He could still see Tormund speaking soothing words to her as they sailed for Eastwatch. Could remember the child she’d been, trying her best not to cry in front of her little sister.

Gods so much of their lives, so much time, had been lost to fighting the dead. The Night King had stolen years from them all, years they’d never get back.

Still, Jon liked Johnna, liked when her people came to trade with them. The girl was kind, fair, and understood how important it was to work for her people. When Jon looked at her, pride and hope stirred in his chest.

“Future of the Free Folk, that one,” Tormund would grin fondly. And Jon agreed.

The girl was ambitious. She wanted to rebuild Hardhome, make it a true town again. She wanted to build longhouses and docks and a large Hall. But to meet these ambitions, Hardhome needed supplies that couldn’t be found north of the Wall.

Worse than that, Hardhome already been through much of their stored food. Fishing was keeping thm fed for now, but lately their catches had been poor. Johnna was worried her people could soon start to go hungry.

“We’ve thought of digging through the ruins of Eastwatch,” she offered by the bonfire one evening. “There’s likely plenty of food and good steel under there. But our scouts think the ice that toppled from the Wall might be too thick. We’ll have to wait until spring and see if it melts any. Hopefully we'll hold out long enough.”

Jon hated the idea of the Free Folk suffering starvation after everything they'd already survived. His mind searched for solutions.

“Why not get supplies from one of the castles? Maybe Long Barrow?” 

Several heads turned to look at him. “Long Barrow?” Johnna asked. “One of the Crow castles?”

Jon nodded slowly, starting to think on the implications of what he’d just said.

“Why?”

“Well…”

It occurred to Jon that he was about to suggest essentially stealing from his former brothers. Guilt started rising in his chest.

“Out with it, little wolf,” Tormund said gently. Jon was glad, suddenly, that Tormund was no longer calling him ‘little Crow.’ He didn’t think he could take that in this moment.

He gulped, but continued. After all, there were so few Brothers now, and they were plenty well fed. The Free Folk needed to eat too.

“Long Barrow is abandoned, but still fairly weather-tight. In Mormont’s years, the Watch used it to store supplies. When I was Lord Commander, I planned to have my men check on the state of the food stores and move them to Castle Black for winter but...well I never had the time.”

People were starting at Jon with increasing interest, and a slow grin was spreading across Tormund’s face.

“But won’t the Crows patrol the Wall?”

Jon scratched at his beard. “To be honest, I do not know. Maybe.”

Disappointment lit behind Johnna’s eyes. She looked away.

“But I doubt it.”

Her eyes snapped back up and met Jon’s quickly.

“Why not?”

“Well,” Jon continued. “They’re likely working with a skeleton thin force right now. Most of the Brothers died in the war against the dead. You saw how few of them remained at Castle Black when we left." Jon gulped a little. _Most of my Brothers died, and now I consider stealing from them._

_We need the food. Remember that we need the food._

“Those that remain are likely more concerned with building the watch back up and dealing with Eastwatch than daily patrols. And who knows, with the Northern and Southern kingdoms divided, the Night King gone, and the Free Folk on good terms with the Queen in the North, it’s possible the Crown plans to all but dissolve the Watch anyway. Either way, there won’t be enough of them for frequent patrols.”

There was true excitement spreading across Johnna’s face now.

“It would mean so much to my people if we could get to those stores. We’ve barely been getting by, times have been so lean. Even a little grain would help us.”

She looked so happy, so hopeful. Jon saw the little girl she’d been, bundled into a boat as her home was destroyed. And Jon knew then he could not deny her.

“Then I’ll help you get them.”

* * *

They made plans and agreed to meet and march south after the turn of the next moon. Word spread, and soon the tiny clan of surviving Nightrunners, some Hornfoots, and a few members of the Forest Clans declared their intention to join in.

Much of the next weeks were spent in preparation; building sleds to carry supplies, choosing who to bring. Through all of it, a horrid guilt twisted inside Jon’s guts.

He knew they needed the supplies, knew the Watch wouldn’t miss them. Hell, there was a decent chance the Watch didn’t even know the supplies were there. Jon himself only knew because of some old paperwork he found of Mormont’s accounting when he was Lord Commander.

But whenever he closed his eyes, Jon would see a litany of disappointed faces. Commander Mormont with stern eyes, Lady Catelyn looking smug that Jon was indeed the wicked bastard she always took him for. His former brothers would sneer in disgust, Sam would gape at him with disbelieving eyes. Occasionally even Sansa would appear, her mouth set in familiar quiet disapproval.

But worst was his father.

When Eddard Stark appeared to Jon, he never said anything, never called out. Just stared with a quiet, resigned, defeated look. A look that didn’t express disappointment so much as utter failure.

Jon did not know why this was affecting him so; he’d done plenty wrong over the years. He’d gotten people killed, he’d killed in battle, he’d murdered. He was a Queenslayer, a Kinslyer. All the worst things a man could be. Taking some spare supplies was nothing in comparison.

Perhaps it was because he’d still been clinging to an idea of himself that was well and truly gone. An idea of himself as a man with honor.

But that man had died in King’s Landing.

* * *

Jon withdrew into himself, spent more time in the woods, walking with Ghost. He wasn’t rude or unkind to his new clan just...quiet.

Tormund noticed something was wrong immediately. Noticed Jon was speaking less and sleeping more. But Tormund was also used to these moods; he’d spent many months watching Jon adjust to his new life, watching him deal with horrors in his past.

So Tormund was kind and patient. Soothed his little wolf with soft touches and quiet care and hoped the man would come to him.

But the night before they left home Jon was still silent, still staring wordlessly into a cookfire, eyes a thousand miles away. And Tormund decided to press the issue.

He sat down beside Jon and put a gentle hand around his shoulders. “Come, little wolf, why don’t I take you to the weirwood. There’s an old trick my father taught me to give you the favor of the gods before a raid.”

“It’s not a raid,” Jon said tightly.

Tormund paused a moment. Silence hung thick in the air.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said after a moment. “I just-”

He stopped, breathed out low, moved out of Tormund’s grasp. Jon rubbed at his temples, then stood quickly. So quickly dizziness overcame him for a moment, but he steadied himself and cleared his throat.

“I think I’ll take my rest, if you don’t mind.”

Tormund was still staring, and Jon knew he heard the stiff formality in his voice, so unusual after all this time beyond the Wall. But he simply nodded, and Jon turned towards their hut.

It took him a moment to realize Tormund had stamped the fire out and was following him home.

Jon felt almost irritated. He wanted time alone to think on things. But he could hardly bar Tormund from his own home.

They entered quietly, and Jon set to the task of setting a new fire, eyes firmly fixed on his work.

He heard Tormund shutting and latching the door, heard the crunch of footsteps against the dirt floor. Heard furs shift as Tormund sat beside him.

He said nothing, but Jon still found himself tensing. Their home suddenly felt too small, too tight.

“What is it?” Jon finally asked.

Tormund sighed.

“Nothing, little wolf. It just seems like you have something on your mind you need to get out.”

“That is my business and mine alone.”

“You’ve been odd for weeks now, Jon. Quiet even for you. And seeing as we’re all about to travel together for weeks and might get in dangerous situations where we need to trust each other, I’d rather you say what you want to say. Get it out in the open so it cannot trouble us.”

Jon struck the flint again and again. It refused to catch fire.

“So what then, a man of the Free Folk cannot have his own secrets?” Jon was surprised at the bitterness in his own voice.

So, it seemed, was Tormund. A shadow of hurt passed across his brow.

“I just want to help, Jon.”

Jon dropped his flint to the ground and ran a hand through his hair. It was getting long, he noted. Too long.

“Talk to me.”

He met Tormund’s eyes. Despite Jon’s irritation, he couldn’t help but see how clear, how kind they were.

“I think we should just ask the Watch if we can take the supplies.”

Tormund’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“You want us to, what, send them a raven?”

“I worry about increasing tensions with the Watch. Instead of raiding, simply asking would be simpler. Safer.”

“Safe’s no good if we starve.”

“They have no reason to say no.”

“That’s not what I mean. You know it could take several turns of the moon to get us all in a room and work out negotiations. Unless the weather changes, Hardhome’s stores won’t last that long.”

“Johnna said they have enough for at least three months.”

Tormund was leaning forward now, flexing his fingers, agitated.

“You know damn well that cuts it too close. We have no idea if they’d say yes -“

“They would -“

“And we have no idea what they’d ask of us in return. They could ask for bodies to man the Wall, they could ask you to return to Crow life permanently-”

“Then I would. To maintain the peace and feed our people, I would.”

Tormund’s voice died. A quiet disbelief was building behind his eyes.

For a long moment, there was no noise but whistling wind.

“You promised me you’d stay,” Tormund finally said, his voice quiet and terrible.

Jon found he couldn’t look at him.

“Tor, if it’s a choice between me going back and everyone starving, that’s no choice at all.”

“But that isn’t the choice.” Tormund’s voice was hard, cold.

“The choice,” he continued slowly, “is between raiding supplies you yourself said wouldn’t be missed, or you going back to Castle Black for no fucking reason.”

“Tor, if we just take the supplies-”

“If we take them, the clans will be fed and your precious Watch will be no worse off. You said yourself the watch has what...40 men? Yet Castle Black still has stores enough to feed 200 for the winter.”

“If they find out-”

“You told us the Crows barely knew the supplies were there! They have an entire destroyed castle to worry over, you think they will notice or care about a few barrels of grain?”

“It isn’t worth the risk.”

“There is no risk!”

“I won’t be a thief. It’s wrong.”

“How can it be wrong to feed people?”

“It’s not honorable, Tormund!”

At this, Tormund’s eyes turned truly cold, like steel covered with frost.

“Honorable,” he repeated, his voice a low and furious rumble.

Jon said nothing, refused to yield to the anger in Tormund’s gaze.

“You’ve done plenty those shit southerners would consider dishonorable in the past. Not sure why this has you so damn bothered.”

And Jon _hated_ him suddenly, hated Tormund for the reminder that he had no honor anymore, that Jon Snow would forever be a stain and shame on his family’s name.

“Well, maybe things would have worked out better if I had stuck to what was honorable.”

“If you’d done that, we’d all be dead!” Tormund exploded, voice echoing furiously off the walls.

Jon was stunned silent. Tormund wasn’t anywhere near done.

“For a long time the fucking Watch thought killing us was fucking honor! And if you’d stayed with that, stayed with them, we’d be dead!”

At some point Tormund had stood. His scarlet red face was inches away.

“The Free Folk would have been wiped out, trapped behind the Wall to protect some southern Crow bullshit honor! And you want to go back?! Even now, is that what you want, Jon? To live your pretty, Kneeler, honorable life without us all to trouble you?”

Through the anger, tears were rising in Tormund’s eyes. Jon’s breath hitched, but he finally found his voice.

“You know that’s not what I meant, don’t twist my words -”

“If it’s honor you want, then just fly back to the Wall and be a Crow.”

Jon couldn’t bare the look on Tormund’s face. He turned away.

“That _is _what you want, isn’t it? To be Jon fucking Snow, a proper bastard Crow again, punishing yourself in solitude. You want to forget us all, forget me, and call it self sacrifice.”

“Tormund-”

"I thought we were past this, but still _still_ you invent reasons to go back to them."

"That's not what I-"

“And when you do, I suppose I’ll just be some nameless Wildling savage to you again.”

Tormund’s voice wavered, something in him seemed to deflate. Jon turned back, met Tormund’s wrecked eyes.

The tears had fallen, were streaked across Tormund’s cheeks, and Jon felt desperation clawing at his throat.

He needed to make this right.

“Tor, please. You know how much you mean to me. Please.”

He tried to clasp Tormund’s hands, but Tormund jerked them away.

“You promised me you’d stay,” he whispered, voice broken. “I shared my bed with you. Made you family to my daughters. I gave you a name! And now you search for excuses to leave.”

Tormund lifted his head, met Jon’s eyes, and Jon felt tears wetting his own eyelashes. This was spiraling out of control. He needed to reach Tor again, make him understand.

“I don’t want to leave. I promise I don’t want to leave, Tor.”

Tormund just shook his head.

“You southerners always use honor as an excuse to do shit things. I’ve been trying to convince you-”

“Tor-”

“For so long I have been trying to convince you that you’re one of us. But maybe you just don’t want to be.”

Jon felt a cold, horrible, pit sinking into his stomach. He needed to say something, anything, to stop this, to get Tormund to look at him, to promise him that he’d care for him until the end of his days.

But Jon couldn’t find the words, and Tormund turned away, walked to the door.

He jerked it open roughly, then turned back to Jon, sharp.

_“Ila dahá, kithi.”_ Tormund choked on the words as he spat them.

The door slammed, and Jon felt all strength leave him.

* * *

Jon picked through the woods surrounding the village, Ghost at his side.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat on the cold dirt floor before Ghost had come to find him. He’d welcomed the warmth, the comfort, like a lost babe. Had sobbed a little into Ghost’s thick fur, let the wolf lick tears from his face.

And then, when Jon’s eyes were mostly dry, Ghost had urged him forward.

And Jon knew Ghost was right. While crying had been a comfort, he needed to find Tormund. Make this right.

The wood was dark and thick, and branches clawed at Jon’s coat. But he knew he could trust Ghost to guide the way.

The wolf paused and sniffed at the dirt, then darted across the ground, impatient. Jon rushed to follow him, but slowed as a head of bright hair came into view.

Tormund sat at the base of the weirwood tree. His furs were dark against the sharp white roots.  
He was staring at the carved face with a look of anguish that made Jon’s insides twist.

A branch cracked under Jon’s foot and Tormund spun, startled.

His eyes were red.

He shifted, seemed ready to leave, but Jon put up a silent, calming hand.

_“Emegnǝ egnulu,”_ Jon murmured.

Tormund stared at him a moment, then snorted, turning away.

“You think using the language I taught you will make your apology go down easier?”

Jon rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Honestly, yes.”

Weirwood branches rustled in the night breeze. Jon cleared his throat.

“Is it working?”

Tormund huffed out a sad little laugh. Jon moved forward, but not too close. He wanted to give the big man some space.

Jon bent and sat cross-legged on a large root. Ghost curled at his back.

“I am sorry,” Jon said again. “Truly.”

Tormund licked at his lips, stared at his feet.

Jon worried, suddenly, worried he had spoiled this forever, had destroyed the last good thing in his life, had ruined his chance at happiness. The weirwood’s face bore down on him, stared in judgement.

Then Tormund sighed, and something in the air shifted.

“I’m sorry too.”

Jon could breathe again.

“Got a bit carried away back there. I shouldn't have yelled.” Tormund ran a hand through his beard, looking sheepish. 

Cold weirwood bark felt soothing under Jon's fingers.

“I don’t want to leave,” Jon said, insistent. “I’m happier here with you than I have been for a very long time.”

Tormund looked at him then, uncertainty lingering in his eyes.

“I promise you.” Jon’s voice was strong, sure. “I do not intend to leave.”

Tormund breathed out low.

“I know. But it feels sometimes like you want to. Like you’re not fully...like you don’t-”

Tormund broke off, looked away.

“It’s just...hard sometimes,” Jon began. “Everything changed. So fast. And life is so different here.”

Jon broke off for a moment, peered at blood-red leaves waving through the stars.

“It’s hard to shake, sometimes. My whole life, I wanted to be good. To be honorable. To be like my father. And it’s just hard to remember sometimes that honor means something different here.”

He sighed, ran a hand over Ghost’s fur.

“It was my life. My whole life, Tormund. I cannot throw away all those lessons, cannot just toss everything that drove me to the wind.”

“I know,” Tormund replied. “Nor do I want you to. It makes you who you are.”

Jon smiled softly.

“So now you don’t mind my foolish southern notions?”

“I don’t mind _you_, little wolf. There’s a difference.”

Tormund glanced his way again, but looked away quickly. He drew his furs tighter around his shoulders.

“I just worry,” he began, tentative, “I worry that someday the Crows will come for you, and you’ll ride away with them. Because you’ll decide it’s the honorable thing to do.”

Tormund was staring at the forest floor beneath him, fidgeting with the furs at his knees. Jon hated seeing him so unsure, wanted to prove that he would care for him always.

He looked at the weirwood’s face, and knew what he had to do.

Jon stood steadily, walked to Tormund. He knelt at his feet, knees crunching in the snow. Took Tormund’s hands in his own.

He met Tormund’s eyes, gaze steady and sure.

“Tormund Giantsbane,” he began. “In the sight of the Old Gods, I pledge my life to the Free Folk. I swear on my honor to serve them and stand with them. And I swear to stay by your side for as many days as you’ll have me.”

Tormund was holding his breath, leaning forward. His eyes were so clear, so blue, so bright.

Moonlight played through scattered leaves. The wind was still. The stars shone bright above them.

Tormund smiled.

“Always so dramatic, little wolf.”

Jon laughed, pulled himself up to sit by Tormund’s side.

“Didn’t do it to be dramatic. I did it so you’ll know I’m serious about saying. I’ve made an oath before the Old Gods now, so my honor demands that I stay with you.”

“Aye, I suppose it does. They’ll curse you terribly if you didn’t speak true.”

Tormund put an arm around Jon’s shoulders, drawing him close. They savored each other’s warmth.

“I love you, Tormund.” The words were quiet, hallowed in the night.

“And I love you, Jon. I’ve loved you for a long time.”

Ghost padded up to curl at their feet. For a long while, they sat in silence. The comforting sounds of the forest at night was music in the cold air.

“So,” Jon said finally. “You mentioned something about an old tradition before raids?”

Tormund smiled.

“I did.”

He drew a large knife from his boot. Jon sank back a bit with a groan.

“I already regret asking.”

“Don’t be a babe, Jon. You just draw the blade across your palm, press the blood into the weirwood’s trunk, and the gods grant you luck.”

“You aren’t making this up cause you’re still cross with me?” Jon teased with a smile.

Tormund smiled back and opened his palm. A long scar cut across it, thick as if it had been cut and healed many times over.

Jon traced it with his finger.

“I always assumed you got this in one of your mad adventures. Maybe during your time with Sheila the she-bear.”

Tormund threw his head back and laughed.

“Finally believing that tale, eh?”

“There is nothing in this world that will make me believe that tale.”

Tormund’s smile spread ear to ear. Jon felt himself grinning in turn.

“Someday I’ll introduce you to Shelia and you’ll eat those words.”

“We’re sitting before the gods, don’t speak falsehoods, Tormund.”

“Never, little wolf. Now -”

Tormund quickly ran the blade over his palm, causing a thin line of blood to well up. He wiped the knife on his furs and handed it to Jon.

Jon cut through the skin quickly, barely noticing the sting of pain.

As they pressed their hands into weirwood bark, marking it with their blood, Tormund ghosted a kiss over Jon’s cheek. His lips were warm.

* * *

All in all, the raid was easy.

Jon enjoyed traveling with the band, enjoyed their mad stories and marching songs. Enjoyed seeing people he’d missed, reuniting with the other clans.

When they reached Long Barrow, there had been no sign of the watch. They’d easily picked the lock on the crumbling gate and made their way inside.

Barrels and barrels of supplies sat untouched amongst dust and snow and spiderwebs. They loaded their sleds with oats and grain and dried meats and even a little honey and sugar. Some of it was old, hard, but none so bad it couldn’t be eaten.

They found plenty of good weapons, good steel. Bolts of black cloth; some a bit moldy or moth eaten but not unusable. Tormund even found a jug of some strange liquor he passed around. Jon refused to take a swig; who knew how long it had been sitting untouched?

Jon felt surprised, during the raid, how little guilt he felt. Despite the long talk with Tormund, he’d still felt occasional flashes of it on the journey to Long Barrow. He’d felt guilt as he rode the horse gifted to him by the watch, felt guilt as the Wall loomed larger and larger in his vision.

But now that he saw this untouched food, saw the smiles on his fellows faces, saw Johnna’s eyes shining with hope...the guilt was gone.

The Watch had no need of these supplies, the Black Brothers would not notice their absence. But this food made all the difference to the Free Folk. And as Jon looked at his people, truly eating their fill for the first time in months, he wondered how he ever believed this could be dishonorable.

There was another raid tradition, Jon learned. Each person was supposed to take a keepsake for themselves.

Many chose weapons. Tormund was trying to choose between an enormous axe and a set of knives.

But Jon looked at this old stone castle, at the training yard and dining hall and barracks, and thought of old friends. Grenn, Pyp, Ed. Sam.

He already had good steel. Jon decided to look for other wares.

He made his way up a rickety old staircase, wood half rotted, and traversed ancient stone hallways. He passed a room filled with black cloaks, passed the officer quarters, the castle commander's office.

Jon felt like a ghost, like an old spirit revisiting a home he'd had in life, long after it had crumbled to dust. 

He walked and walked and eventually found himself in the castle library.

It was smaller than Castle Black’s by far, and many of the books were decayed and destroyed. Some flaked under Jon’s touch when he brushed against them.

But he found a few in good condition, whose pages could still be turned. Among these, there was a volume about “wicked Wildlings” that detailed battle tactics of Free Folk bands and Kings Beyond the Wall.

Jon did not doubt that this book would be biased at best. But flipping through it, he could see there was information about old outposts, about Free Folk legends, about famous warriors Jon had never heard of. It would be interesting to read through it with Tormund, see if they could discover what was fact and what was fiction.

Jon brushed his fingers over the spine, and suddenly felt a keen nostalgia for evenings spent sitting with Sam and Gilly. Trying to work through his Lord Commander duties while Sam occasionally shouted out odd facts he'd learned about the White Walkers from some dusty old tome.

He remembered even earlier days, when they'd first arrived at Castle Black. Sam would read to him as they stood watch atop the Wall at night, trying futilely to hide books in his cloak when senior officers passed them.

Gods he missed Sam. He missed everyone.

Sam would think it a shame if he let this book, this old knowledge, rot away. And it _would_ rot here, forgotten, in this dusty old castle.

By taking it, he could honor his former brother.

So Jon tucked it under his arm and made his way back to the courtyard. The sleds were setting off, and Jon laughed as he watched Tormund trying to strap an immense crossbow to his back.

In the weeks traveling home, they ate and chatted and compared their new treasures. In the evenings, Jon would read aloud from the book he’d found. Sometimes everyone would laugh at Crow misconceptions, other times they’d listen silent with bated breath as they listen to recountings of ancient battles.

The band started to break apart as people went back to their clans. Soon Jon and Tormund were saying goodbye to Johnna and her people, pride full in their eyes.

And when they finally made their way to the familiar banks of the Antler River, when the clan came out to greet them joyfully and sorted through their spoils with excitement, Jon felt for the first time in a long while that he had come home.

**Author's Note:**

> “Ila dahá, kithi.” - Fuck you, Crow.
> 
> “Emegnǝ egnulu.” - I'm sorry.


End file.
